


Fumbling & Flash

by Naughty_Yorick



Series: The Alphabet Game [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, M/M, Making Out, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sharing Body Heat, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27224737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Under any other circumstances Jaskier would take time to savour the removal of Geralt’s armour, but today speed was of the essence - the longer Geralt stayed in the wet clothes, the more likely it would be that he’d succumb to the cold.After a fight with an ice giant goes awry, Jaskier is forced to take care of his half-frozen Witcher, terrified that hypothermia might set in and snatch him away. After removing his sodden clothes, he realises there's only one thing warm enough to keep him from the brink: himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Alphabet Game [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983026
Comments: 27
Kudos: 401





	Fumbling & Flash

**Author's Note:**

> I challenged myself to write a fic for every letter of the alphabet. I took each letter, plugged it into a random word generator and wrote a fic based on whichever word it gave me. This letter is "F", and I had two asks so generated two words, which are "fumble" and "flash". See more of my Alphabet Challenge on my tumblr, [here!](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/post/632799468062916608/alphabet-game-master-post)

Thick, relentless snow was building up against the cracked, single-pane window. The one room hovel had long-since been abandoned, and more snow was gently floating in through the chimney of the disused fireplace. A rumble of thunder shook the walls as a flash of lightning illuminated the room.

The door burst open. Geralt and Jaskier stumbled in, letting a flurry of snow in with them. The door slammed shut behind them, sending dust showering down from the web-covered beams. 

Jaskier’s arm was slung around Geralt, staggering under both Geralt’s weight and the weight of their packs and bedrolls. He set him down gently beside the fireplace before dropping to his knees beside him and inspecting the dusty grate. Thankfully, it was functional - just ancient, full of old ash and dust. He scraped out the spent ash with his hands, then peered around the room looking for something to burn. 

There were a couple of smashed chairs in the corner of the room, and he grabbed as much of the splintered wood as he could. He threw it into the fireplace then hurried back to Geralt’s side. 

“Geralt,” he said, “I don’t have time to fuck about with the flint. Could you…”

Geralt looked at him, wet through and shivering, and raised a weak arm, shooting a fireball of Igni into the grate. The wood burst into flame.

“Right,” said Jaskier, trying to sound sure, “we need to get you warm and dry, Geralt.”

He grabbed both of their bedrolls and spread them out in front of the fire, then shifted Geralt onto them so he wouldn’t be lying on the icy stone floor.

“We have to take off your things…” he muttered, moving to grab the blankets from their packs “they’re sodden…”

Geralt nodded, his fingers skittering on his armour, fumbling with the straps. Jaskier turned to him, dropping both blankets beside him and gently moving his hands away.

“Let me,” he said, “I’ll be quicker…”

Under any other circumstances Jaskier would take time to savour the removal of Geralt’s armour, but today speed was of the essence - the longer Geralt stayed in the wet clothes, the more likely it would be that he’d succumb to the cold. Geralt was shaking all over, his hands trembling, fingers useless. There was an inky blackness playing about his lips and eyes that Jaskier hadn’t noticed before, and with a squeeze of panic he quickened his pace, struck with the thought that they might already be too late.

Finally, the armour came away, followed quickly by Geralt’s soaked shirt, already turning hard and crusty with ice. The trousers would have to come away too, and between them they maneuvered Geralt’s legs from the stiff fabric without too much awkwardness. It was not to last, however: his smallclothes were just as waterlogged as the rest of his clothing, and Jaskier was sure that his cock was the _last_ place Geralt wanted to get frostbite. He hesitated.

“Um…” he stuttered, vaguely gesturing towards Geralt’s _smallclothes region_ with a haphazard wave, “I mean, we need to get you dry, you see, so…” he could feel himself blushing, thankful that his face was already red from the biting cold. “Do you think you can manage, to, ah… or do you need me to…?”

In all the hundreds of ways Jaskier had imagined removing Geralt’s smallclothes, this scenario was very much _not_ among them. He tried to push those thoughts aside as he grabbed the first blanket and placed it around Geralt’s shoulders like a cloak, both for warmth and the modicum of privacy it granted him for this particular task.

Geralt shuffled out of his underthings as Jaskier returned to the packs for fresh clothing. Thankfully, he’d been given the somewhat easier task of looking after them while Geralt saw off the creature in the cave, and so their things had remained dry, if cold. He tugged out one of Geralt’s softer tunics, along with fresh smallclothes and trousers, then hurried back. 

Geralt had thrown the nearly frozen smallclothes onto the heap with the rest of his clothes, which Jaskier kicked towards the fire, more concerned with getting Geralt dry and warm than making sure they didn’t crease. Trying rather desperately not to look down, he let himself in beneath the blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders too, then tugged the tunic over Geralt’s head. 

Geralt’s arms were still stiff and shaking, his skin like ice beneath Jaskier’s touch, and he soon realised that despite his attempts to leave Geralt’s dignity - and his own - at least a little intact, he would be forced to help Geralt dress. As his hands pressed against the icy flesh of Geralt’s legs, any thoughts he once entertained of fumbles and dalliances with the witcher were replaced only with the churning, bottomless pit of fear that something was truly wrong with him.

Finally, after what felt like an age, Geralt was dressed in dry clothes. But the fabric was thin and his skin was still cold, far too cold, but the heat of the fire and the warmth of the blankets, which Jaskier had extracted himself from, didn’t seem to be helping. Jaskier knew that he couldn’t sit Geralt too close to the flames - if he warmed up too quickly, it could be just as disastrous as if he stayed frozen. He needed to warm him gradually, somehow.

There was nothing to hand. All he had was the fire - too hot, too dangerous, or the blankets - too thin, too _useless_. He needed something somewhere between, something that would get Geralt’s blood flowing without risking his heart simply giving out.

Jaskier twiddled his fingers together, shivering a little himself, when he realised.

_Of course._

He shuffled closer.

“Geralt,” he said, “We need to get you warm. So, ah…” He faltered, a little. Then resolved himself. No: Geralt might complain, might refuse, but he had to get warm. “We need to share body heat,” he continued, with confidence. “I’m not letting you freeze to death after killing a fucking ice giant.”

An _ice giant._ A man who went around killing ice giants was not about to be taken out by an unexpected dip in a frozen pond.

“Right,” Jaskier moved closer still, eyeing Geralt in case he made any sudden attempts to get away, “How do we do this…”

He’d never been forced to save someone from frostbite before. Sure, he’d spent wintery nights wrapped around another body under the vague guise of _sharing body heat,_ but that was different. There was never a life on the line. Should he simply get beneath the blanket with Geralt and embrace him where he sat? Doing so would mean him virtually sitting in Geralt’s lap. The thought made his already stinging cheeks flush even more, and he quickly pushed it aside. 

He could go from behind - let Geralt lean his weight against him - but the position would quickly become uncomfortable and he was sure he’d heard that you were supposed to get someone with apparent hypothermia to lie down. Perhaps Geralt himself had told him that, years ago: this wasn’t the first time they’d found themselves knee-deep in snow, after all. Or he could have read it in one of the many books he’d started to collect on health and anatomy during long winters with nothing much else to do.

In any case: lying down, he suspected, would be the best method. He edged around Geralt, feeling self-conscious, aware of his every movement, then placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“You need to lie down,” he muttered, “make sure you stay on the rolls, the floor is fucking freezing…”

Geralt made a little grumbling noise, watching him cautiously with dark eyes, but did as he requested. 

“Good,” said Jaskier, a little surprised that Geralt had acquiesced to him. There really was something wrong with the witcher. “Right, so…” He mumbled more to himself than Geralt, as he pulled away the blankets and slid in beneath them, pressing his chest to Geralt’s back before covering them both back up with the wool, making sure Geralt got most of the fabric.

“What’re you doing?”

It was the most Geralt had said since falling into the frozen water, aside from the single time he’d cried out Jaskier’s name and the consequent series of expletives when Jaskier had pulled him out. Hearing him speak - even if it was nothing more than a mumble around chattering teeth - lit something like hope in Jaskier’s chest.

“Warming you up,” he said, simply. “You’re too cold, Geralt. You’ll get hypothermia, or frostbite, or… or something.”

Geralt muttered something else.

“What was that?” Said Jaskier, as he slid an arm around Geralt’s middle, pulling him closer.

“S’nothing,” Geralt sniffed.

Jaskier gripped him tighter, trying to make sure as much of their bodies were touching as possible. It was no small task - while they were virtually of a height, Geralt was significantly broader, too broad to fully benefit from being embraced like this. Jaskier even slid one of his legs between Geralt’s - and even more absurdly, Geralt allowed the intrusion, moving his ankles just a fraction to let him in. 

Geralt shifted, and to Jaskier’s shock even pressed himself closer against him. Too blind with worry to think about anything other than keeping Geralt warm, he dug his hand into Geralt’s shirt to maintain his position and buried his head into the back of his neck, huffing warm breaths over his shoulder.

It would have to do. It would have to be enough.

He hoped it would be enough.

The storm was still raging outside, and the sparse light coming in through the single snow-coated window had dimmed considerably aside from the occasional flash of lightning. It must be nearly night, although it was hard to tell in the blizzard. Beside Jaskier, Geralt was breathing slow and deep, silent once more. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure how long he stayed awake, feeling his limbs gradually fall asleep as he desperately held himself close to Geralt’s back, hyper-aware of every breath he took, every little noise he made, even when he was almost certainly asleep. But soon Jaskier could feel himself drifting too, as Geralt finally began to warm against him, his eyes drooping. 

He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t drift into the softness. He needed to stay awake, to be alert and aware just in case he hadn’t done enough. He needed to…

To…

Blinding white light flooded across his eyelids. Jaskier groaned, his whole body feeling stiff, riddled with aches and pains. He was cold, lying on something hard. There was something pressed against his back, something else wrapped around his middle - something delightfully warm. Something even more delightful was playing against his neck with hot, inviting puffs of air.

His eyes snapped open, and he sat up, Geralt’s arm dropping away from him as he did.

“Geralt!”

Geralt stared up at him from his position on the floor. “…Yes?”

Jaskier grabbed his face, peering at him. His skin had returned to its usual colour, his lips faintly pink rather than that unpleasant blue-black. His cheeks beneath Jaskier’s hands were pleasantly warm.

“You’re alright,” he said, breathlessly.

“Of course I’m alright,” said Geralt, sitting up, bringing the woollen blanket with him. 

“You don’t feel cold? Or weak, or ill?” Jaskier chattered, his hands fluttering up and down Geralt’s arm, “everything still, ah… attached?”

“Everything’s still attached. I feel fine.” Geralt spotted Jaskier’s frown. “Honestly,” he added. “Fine.”

Jaskier shook his head at him. “But… the snow. The pond. I had to drag you here, Geralt. I didn’t even think you’d-” his voice cracked, a little, “-you’d make it through the night,” he finished. “I thought… frostbite, hypothermia…” He swallowed. “How?”

“Witcher,” said Geralt, simply.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we don’t _get_ hypothermia. Or frostbite. It isn’t possible. Mutagens, training… the usual.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “But… you were so cold! Your lips were turning black!”

Geralt treated him to a half-smile. “The ice giant coated his club in Arachas venom,” he said. “I had to drain a Golden Oriole to counter it. Didn’t you notice?”

Jaskier spluttered. “No, I didn’t notice!” He cried, “I was too busy trying to save you from hypothermia to realise I should have been looking for signs of toxicity! I thought…” Jaskier sighed, relief mingling with embarrassment, “I thought you might. Be dying. I didn’t…” He looked towards the fire, which was now just ash, “I don’t know what I’d have done if you were. If you did.” 

He shivered, and Geralt picked up the spare blanket from the floor and wrapped it around his shoulders. Jaskier gripped it gratefully, pulling it tight. 

“You did a fine job,” said Geralt, gently. “If I had been dying of hypothermia… I’d have been glad to have you with me.” 

Jaskier smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “But… please _don’t_ die of hypothermia. I don’t think I can bear going through that again…”

“I’ll try not to.”

“We’ll go somewhere warm, next,” said Jaskier. “Toussaint, perhaps. Somewhere where there aren’t any fucking ice giants, hmm?”

“Sounds good.”

They lapsed into companionable silence. Apparently happy that Jaskier was no longer under the impression he was dying, Geralt rose, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, and shoved a few more bits of broken wood into the fireplace, lighting them with Igni. The fire crackled pleasantly and Jaskier could feel the room begin to warm up once more. He watched as Geralt worked, then came back to the bedrolls still spread across the floor to sit beside him again.

He was fine. He wasn’t dying - he was _never_ dying. It had just been his weird witcher body dealing with the cold in the best way it knew how: that, and a good hit of venom mingling with one of those bloody potions. That must have been why he was so out of it.

Yet…

He peered at Geralt, and the blanket that he gripped tight around his shoulders.

Geralt had been alright. And yet he’d allowed Jaskier to wrap himself around him, to press himself against him all night. He’d let Jaskier _undress_ him. 

“Geralt…” he started, slowly, “if you weren’t in fact, horribly and slowly dying of hypothermia… why did you let me look after you like that? I mean…” he swallowed, then ploughed on, “I fucking _undressed_ you, Geralt. And you let me!”

Geralt looked down. “I… The effects of the venom mixed with the potion were stronger than I’d anticipated. I really _was_ struggling, Jaskier. Not from the cold, of course…” He paused. “I’m sorry. I realise - I wasn’t trying to take advantage of you. I should have said. I _could_ have said, later…”

“Later when?”

“When you decided we needed to share body heat. I should have told you I was alright…”

Jaskier remembered the mumbled noise Geralt had made - followed by the quick dismissal that it was nothing. He blinked. 

“Oh.” He shuffled beneath the blanket. “You didn’t… you didn’t take advantage of me. I was worried about you. I’d have done anything to make sure you were okay.”

“But I _was_ okay. I would have been okay even if you’d left me on the floor.”

“I wouldn’t have done that.”

Geralt looked at him. His yellow eyes were wide despite the bright light. “I know,” he said.

“Maybe I should apologise,” said Jaskier with a mirthless laugh, “for undressing you like that, now I realise it was unnecessary. I really did think you were-” he couldn’t bring himself to say it again. “I thought it was for the best,” he settled on. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

Jaskier was cut off, suddenly, by Geralt dragging him towards him, wrapping him into a hug. It was so unexpected - so utterly unlike him - that Jaskier could only make a soft little _oof_ of shock.

“Geralt,” he said, finally, “You’re hugging me. You’ve become completely insensible. You must be dying after all, it’s the only explanation…”

“Thank you,” Geralt muttered into his shoulder, “for trying to save me.”

Jaskier wriggled, trying to free his arms from beneath the blanket so he could hug Geralt back.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, “I mean, well. Maybe _do_ mention it. Do feel free to tell everyone how I valiantly saved your life. Sort of.”

“You got me into dry clothes,” said Geralt, “and then you spooned me all night. Is that what counts as _valiant_ in the songs?”

“I’d say so,” said Jaskier, as Geralt released him, “isn’t being valiant just showing courage? And what is courage if not doing things that scare you, hmm?”

Geralt peered at him, eyes narrowing. “I scare you?” Jaskier wasn’t imagining the hurt in his voice.

“Oh, Geralt,” he sighed, “No. Of course not. I was terrified of the idea of you just… slipping away from me.” He lowered his gaze, gripping the blanket even tighter. “And, well. Undressing you? It was a little, ah… nerve wracking. Not how I imagined at all,” he added with a hollow little chuckle.

There was a long, heavy pause. Jaskier was about to try and laugh it off, to slide back into denial, when Geralt finally spoke.

"How did you imagine it?“

Jaskier allowed himself to look up. Geralt was watching him, his expression unreadable. Damn him.

"I, well…” Jaskier fumbled with his words for a moment, trying to decide the right thing to say. “I mean…” he considered just denying it, but he remembered suddenly he way he’d woken up: with Geralt wrapped around him, his lips oh so close to his neck. He swallowed. “Largely,” he said, “with a lot less ice. And rather more enthusiasm on your part.”

“Is that so?” Geralt was _prompting_ him, Jaskier suddenly realised. Was he enjoying this?

“That _is_ so,” he said, maintaining deliberate eye contact. “Come, you know how it goes. All hasty grabbing and shirt ripping and tugging at ties and whatnot. Although…” he titled his head, letting the blanket drop a little to reveal his neck, aware that Geralt’s pupils were just a fraction larger, “slow and deliberate certainly has its charms too. One button at a time, taking it all in, slowly, _teasing_ … Although not, perhaps, when one party is apparently freezing to death.”

“Hmm.” It rumbled from Geralt, almost like a growl. Jaskier peered at him, eyebrows raised.

“Of course,” he said, “removing your clothes does appear to be rather _tied_ to you freezing to death. I rather doubt you would have allowed it otherwise.” He licked his lips and - just for a moment - allowed his gaze to drift to Geralt’s mouth. “I wonder if you’d do the same for me…”

And then Geralt threw himself at him, letting the woollen blanket slip down and scooping Jaskier into his arms in one movement. Jaskier gasped at the sudden manhandling, dropping his own blanket in favour of wrapping his arms around Geralt’s chest, his fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic.

“Ah-” was all he could manage before Geralt was kissing him, his lips slightly cool against Jaskier’s own. 

Uncaring for the cold biting at him, Jaskier let his hands roam across Geralt’s back, tug in his hair. Geralt kissed him fiercely, like he did everything: all power and energy. He couldn’t believe that just hours ago Jaskier had thought the witcher was at Death’s door.

He clung to Geralt, and shuffling the blanket off of him he wrapped his legs around Geralt’s waist, whose hands were now on Jaskier’s hips, pulling him even closer. Geralt’s tongue traced the line of his mouth slowly, exploratively - and with a little noise of impatience Jaskier opened his mouth fully, letting him in. He tasted _so_ fucking good.

Geralt’s hands had drifted up, tangling in Jaskier’s tunic, gripping it, ready to pull it away.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasped, “I… _fuck_ , Geralt, yes…”

Geralt tugged at his shirt, pulling it off over his head and tossing it aside before holding him closer, their lips crashing together once more. Jaskier sighed against him, lost in the feeling of Geralt’s tongue dancing on his mouth, the taste of him.

With a hum, Geralt lowered him down to the floor, leaning above him. Jaskier gazed up into his dark eyes, aware how easily Geralt moved him around, how effortless it was.

And then his bare back touched the stone floor.

_“Fuck!”_

Jaskier sprang up as the icy floor pressed against his skin, stingingly cold, his forehead crashing into Geralt’s unsuspecting face, sending them both flying backwards. Geralt cursed as they righted themselves, rubbing his nose.

“Shit, Geralt, I’m sorry…” Jaskier reached for Geralt’s face, who lowered his hand and blinked at him, looking a little dazed. 

“It’s fine,” he said, sniffing. “It was the shock more than anything…”

Jaskier couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, lowering his head to rest on Geralt’s chest, their legs tangled together. He tugged the blanket that was hanging uselessly from Geralt’s shoulders around them both with a little shiver.

“What was it you were saying,” Geralt muttered into the top of Jaskier’s head, “about going somewhere warmer?”

Jaskier grinned. “Toussaint,” he said. “Anywhere, really. Anywhere that isn’t trapped in a perpetual snowstorm." 

"We’ll head down to the clan when the storm passes,” said Geralt. “Deliver the giant’s head to the Jarl and use the coin to get the next fastest boat back to Velen. We can go south from there.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier let his hands run over Geralt’s back, enjoying how warm he was. “Sounds delightful.” He was struck with a sudden thought. “When do you think the storm will pass?”

Geralt shrugged. “A couple of hours,” he said. “Less, probably.”

“So we’ve got some time to kill, then…”

He raised his head, nuzzling into Geralt’s neck. Geralt shivered beneath him, and Jaskier opened his mouth, pressing hot, needy kisses to Geralt’s pulse point, exploring it with his tongue. Geralt moaned beneath the touch, the sound sending a little thrill through Jaskier’s body right to his core.

From where he was straddling Geralt’s lap beneath the blanket, he could feel him growing hard, and he repeated the movement with a little roll of his hips. Geralt groaned again, his fingers pressing into Jaskier’s waist.

“One thing,” Jaskier mumbled against him with a heavy sigh, before raising his head to properly look at him.

“Anything.”

“If you put me on the stone floor again I’ll _actually_ murder you.”

Geralt laughed. “Noted,” he said.

And he kissed him again.


End file.
